Freddie Rooke gazed coldly at the breakfast-table. Through a gleaming eye-glasshe inspected the revolting object which Parker, his faithful man, had placed ona plate before him.
“Parker!” His voice had a ring of pain.
“Sir?”
“What’s this?”
“Poached egg, sir.”
Freddie averted his eyes with a silent shudder.
“It looks just like an old aunt of mine,” he said. “Removeit!”
He got up, and, wrapping his dressing-gown about his long legs, took up a standin front of the fireplace. From this position he surveyed the room, hisshoulders against the mantelpiece, his calves pressing the club-fender. It wasa cheerful oasis in a chill and foggy world, a typical London bachelor’sbreakfast-room. The walls were a restful gray, and the table, set for two, acomfortable arrangement in white and silver.
“Eggs, Parker,” said Freddie solemnly, “are the acidtest!”
“Yes, sir?”
“If, on the morning after, you can tackle a poached egg, you are allright. If not, not. And don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.”
“No, sir.”
Freddie pressed the palm of his hand to his brow, and sighed.
“It would seem, then, that I must have revelled a trifle whole-heartedlylast night. I was possibly a little blotto. Not whiffled, perhaps, butindisputably blotto. Did I make much noise coming in?”
“No, sir. You were very quiet.”
“Ah! A dashed bad sign!”
Freddie moved to the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“The cream-jug is to your right, sir,” said the helpful Parker.
“Let it remain there. Café noir for me this morning. As noir as it canjolly well stick!” Freddie retired to the fireplace and sippeddelicately. “As far as I can remember, it was Ronny Devereux’birthday or something …”
“Mr Martyn’s, I think you said, sir.”
“That’s right. Algy Martyn’s birthday, and Ronny and I werethe gue